


through the heartbreak

by theepiccek



Category: The Slains Series - Susanna Kearsley
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theepiccek/pseuds/theepiccek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My heart is with you, John, as yours is with me. Whatever else may happen, this will stay true.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the heartbreak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tosca1390](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> (as if I needed an excuse to (definitely un-emotionally) reread these books)

_Do you ever wish we had made different choices?_

He had asked her this years ago – the first afternoon they had together in Kircudbright, as they lay together with dappled sunlight dancing on their skin. 

She knows that he meant did she regret marrying him. Did she regret standing with him on the old pine bridge, as water flowed beneath their feet, lending a song to their marrying. Her answer then, as it was now, and as it would always be, was no. 

He has just told her their daughter has vanished into thin air between Ypres and Calais, and he asks her this again, as he stands in the doorway of their bedroom, looking broken in both body and heart, his right hand clutching the stone around his neck.

For a split second – for not even the length of a heartbeat – she might blame him. Him, the King, Colonel Graeme, Queen Anne – she would blame them all if it meant her daughter would appear from behind John, running into her arms. 

But no. 

They have two sons now, and a third ( _fourth_ , her heart whispers) babe growing inside her. And they have no knowledge of their lost sister, and they cannot lose their mother to grief too. 

So she smiles at John through her tears, and through her own heart breaking, and reminds herself and him that she does not blame him. That she does not regret her choice; that she does not regret the life she has with him for a second. 

\-- 

They make the journey to Ireland not long after they are married in Kircudbright. 

She does not care for the frivolity of their (second) wedding. To her, the two of them, on the bridge, saying their vows with honesty urgency, and need is all she could have wanted. 

But she is not marrying John Moray. To the Church, and everyone but the three of them, this is her first wedding, and she is marrying David McClelland.

And John is determined to do right by her, to make up for all that she went through alone, both whilst she was still at Slains, and after. He does not tell her this, but a cloud passes over his face when she mentions the Castle, or the people they knew there. He does not begrudge her the good memories, but there are bad enough thoughts there for the two of them. 

Ulster though, has always been the plan. Sophia knows he would rather still be with the King on the continent, that he would indeed fight tooth and nail to see him crowned. At some point in their journey thus far, however, he has chosen her instead. 

Their ship sails to Ulster in the clear dawn of a July morning. Colonel Graeme sees them off, their last link to family that is not each other. They arrive in Ireland to rolling green hills that seem so much like Scotland; they may well never have left. But things are new and they are strangers here, and they have no one but themselves. 

\--

One night, not long after they arrive in Ulster, John is late coming to bed. 

Flustered and tired of waiting for him to come to join her, Sophia pushes back the covers, and moves into the next room to see what has kept him 

She finds him at work writing a letter. 

As she watches him in the candlelight, his shirtsleeves rolled up to avoid the ink, and partially unbuttoned to avoid the heat; she feels the heat rise up in her. She wants nothing more than to move up behind him and press herself up against his solid body. But she is not yet so familiar with him, or with their marriage that she is bold enough to do this. 

As though he can sense her, and the thoughts that plague her, his head turns to took at her and a wicked smile takes over his face. He stands in a fluid movement, as quickly as he dares so as not to disturb the still drying letter. He is cat-quick as he comes over to use his hands to pull her face up to meet his, to press his mouth to hers.

As their kiss becomes so much she feels she cannot bear it any more, John sweeps her up into his arms, carrying her back towards their bed. 

She cannot help the laugh that escapes her as he rights her onto the mattress, pulling his shirt off, motioning for her to do the same with her nightgown. There might have been a time when she would have been timid in this moment, but now she is too ready for the feel of his chest against hers, and the feel of his hands on her body that she cannot feel even a hint of discomfort. 

He steps towards her, the smirk on his face, replaced by a gentle smile. The smile is replaced by gentle kisses all over her face, as he presses her down into their bed, his weight settling over her. 

The night passes with their limbs tangled together, moans filing the air, and drifting out through the open windows. 

The next morning, though she feels the lack of sleep in her bones, she has never been happier.

\--

Some days pass like this, rose coloured, and full of nothing but joy. 

Other days, Anna becomes a ghost between them, no matter how hard they may try. 

She will never be forgotten, but they cannot speak of her outside of their bedroom, and so she becomes a gossamer thread that twines through everything they do. 

Before the Rising, they speak more openly of her. Of bringing her over with them – bringing their family back together in this new place. 

After Ypres, Sophia feels like she might one day shimmer out of her skin, she is so excited at the thought of having her daughter back with her, that she doesn’t even consider the fact that anything bad could happen – not again, not after all they have already endured. 

But then after Calais, Sophia feels as though a part of herself has broken. Worse than that though, she had thought that a part of her and John had broken.

Even as John cradles her on the floor of their bedroom, her mouth open in gaping sobs as her heart tries to crawl up out of her chest, his tears falling into her hair, she mourns, but she knows she will not be fully whole. 

\-- 

The first time her courses stop she cannot help but feel guilty. She remembers going through this before, and knows the changes in her body almost the second they happen. She does not want to keep this from John, not when it will make him so happy. But she wants the knowledge, and the hurt to herself, just for a time. 

When she tells him, it is midsummer and they are sitting together in the grass outside their home. The scent of the lilac bush he planted for her birthday washes over her in waves, calming her thoughts. Their fingers are intertwined, and she brings his hand to rest on her stomach. The hitch in his breath as he realises what she is telling him is enough to fill her with excitement for this new life of theirs. 

His hand moves up to cup her cheek, turning her face towards him. In his eyes she can see tears – but also the depth of his love. 

“I wasn’t with you with –” he swallows deeply, as though Anna’s name is made of glass, “the last time. But I’ll not leave your side with this one.” 

The love and pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear, so she presses her hand to his heart, as though to draw some of it out and into her own soul. 

\-- 

James asks one day, when he might have a sister. It is all Sophia can do not to cry out, to sit him down and tell him all about the bright spark of Anna, to draw John into the room, so he may regale the boys with stories of their strong, brave sister. So she can tell them how much they looked like her as an infant, how all their hair is just the same. So that he may talk of her defiant spirit, and of the young girl unable to bear the bars of a convent. 

For them both to tell their sons they have a sister. A sister who is coming home. 

But it is still too dangerous, a decade later. To knowingly be a Jacobite in the British Isles is still to court despair and ruination, if not death, and after all the near misses she has had with her family so far, Sophia does not dare chance another.

So she smiles through the pain, and the missing part of her soul, and tells him: one day, perhaps.

She never stops hoping it will be true. 

\-- 

A month after John’s return from Calais, Sophia is in their sitting room, fiddling with their chess set. She is not playing, exactly. Rather, she moves the black pawns backward and forward across the board as though they were the King’s army. Perhaps if it were as easy as this, her daughter would be back with her. 

John’s hand closes over her shoulder, and grasps the hand with hers as she turns to up at him. 

“I’ve not the words to tell ye how sorry I am, lass”.

But while he may not have the words, he has his heart in his throat, and the despair in his voice. 

And so she stands and turns to him. She runs her hands up and under his shirt, smoothing over his chest, and all the wounds he has taken in defence of his country. 

She presses her mouth to his, before trailing down the column of his neck, to where his shirt opens. 

A gentle push, and he is seated on the chair next to the window. 

“Sophia,” a pained moan, as she settles over his hips.

“Shh.” His hands slid up under her skirts, moving them out of his way.

“Lass – “ one arm is around his shoulders, steadying her, keeping her grounded. Her other hand twines in through his hair, holding him close to her as his mouth moves down her throat, and along her collarbone. His kisses warm her from the inside out, and remind her again of how deep his adoration runs. His kisses feel like worship, love and apologies all in one. She presses down and against the hand he has between her legs, and moves to whisper in his ear:

“My heart is with you, John, as yours is with me. Whatever else may happen, this will stay true.” 

\-- 

May Seventeenth, in the year of our Lord Seventeen Twenty Five. 

Sophia has been sitting in the window, attempting to embroider a new handkerchief for John for over an hour. But all day she has felt restless, much like she did as a young woman as she looked out over the winter sea, searching for ships on the horizon. 

But even in Ulster, they are too far from the sea for her to assuage her curiosity, and she is trying to content herself with needle and thread. 

She feels the fall of his footsteps before she hears him calling for her. As he enters the room she is already turning towards him, as though he is the sun, and she is a daffodil in Spring. 

One hand is reaching for her, and the other clutches a letter so tight she fears the paper will be crumpled beyond reading. 

The last time a letter arrived that mattered so much to him, it was to tell them that Colnerl Graeme was dead. She dares not ask who they have lost now.

But instead. He utters the words she never thought to hear. 

“Sophia. We’ve found Anna. We can bring her home.” 

A cry bursts out of her chest, and for a moment, she feels weightless. She pulls John into her arms, and they are both laughing and crying and holding each other as close as they can.


End file.
